The Waiting Room
by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: He realizes how he feels, but is it too late? A ficlet slightly inspired by my current waiting room experience. Only slightly angsty. No characters are listed, you'll see why.
1. The Waiting Room

Sitting in the waiting room was excruciating. Every time the door opened, his head would pop up, looking, hoping it was someone for him. He'd paced the length and breadth of the room. He'd counted ceiling tiles. He didn't dare leave to walk the halls of the hospital. If something happened, if they needed him, he HAD to be there. There was no one else who could speak in his place.

It was so stupid. They should have known better. But they had chased suspects through London a million times before and nothing like this had ever happened. A freak accident, a car turning at just the right moment and a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. It couldn't even be attributed to a case or a suspect. Just chance. And now that man, that beautiful, wonderful man was in critical condition.

Why had he never realized how he felt until now? Was it the adrenaline running through his system? No. It dawned on him that he actually HAD known but had pushed those feelings down. Not his area, not his division, not gay, not a couple. All those thoughts ran through his head. He had known better each time it was said, each time it was heard. But he chose to deny those emotions. He had been afraid. And now, now he may never get the chance to tell the man he loved how he felt.

He would tell that man, that singularly unique man that life was dull before he walked into it. That because of that beautiful man he could see things in a way he'd never considered before. That when that wonderful man spoke, he changed the world. The world was better because he was in it. That life would never be the same because of him. The love of his life HAD to make it, because he needed to tell him all of this.

He sighed as he slumped into one of the chairs and sobbed into his hands. It was his fault. He should have been quicker, he should have seen the car, he should have saved him. It should have been him instead of his love.

It seemed like days, but it was actually only hours, before the door opened. "Family of John Watson?"

"Yes?" came Sherlock's anxious reply.

"He's going to be fine."


	2. The Hospital Room

**A sequel to "The Waiting Room" I hadn't intended to write a sequel but there was a lot of demand for one on here and on tumblr. I hope you all like it.**

John was vaguely aware of the beeping of the monitors and a smell he identified as "hospital". His head hurt and he didn't even want to think about opening his eyes yet. It took him another moment to recognize the fact that he was laying on a hospital bed and the monitors were for him. What the hell was he doing on this side of the bed? What happened? Slowly, he started to remember… .

He and Sherlock had been running through the streets of London in pursuit of a suspect. As always, John had placed his trust the man running in front of him to guide them unerringly. But he should have known better than to trust London drivers.

He didn't see it happen. He was too busy keeping Sherlock in his line of sight. As they dashed across a street, he suddenly felt the bone-crushing impact. Pain burst through him. Starbursts blinded his vision. He felt his body thrown by the impact and then crumple. Then he heard Sherlock actually scream his name, "JOHN!" before everything went black.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you have a near-death experience, and when he'd been shot it had. But this time was different. The life that had flashed before his eyes was only from the day he'd met Sherlock; all adventure, excitement, cases, laughter, and, God help him, his feelings towards the man. But that wasn't all, as if in some precognitive mumbo jumbo, he saw what would happen to Sherlock if he didn't make it tonight. John knew that Sherlock would blame himself, fall into a depression, isolate himself even more, slip back into his narcotics, and eventually find a way to off himself either by an overdose or other unsavory means. It made John's heart ache just to think about those lucid memories.

He couldn't let anything happen to Sherlock. Ever since that night when he'd shot the cabbie for Sherlock, he knew he cared about this unique man in a way even he couldn't explain. He'd pushed those emotions aside for so long, not daring to acknowledge them. Not gay, not a couple, not his area, all words he'd said or thought, but deep down weren't exactly true. What he felt for Sherlock, he'd never felt for anyone else. His world revolved around that brilliant, amazing, wonderful, and, yes, arrogant git of a man. He loved him. He would do anything for him and John needed Sherlock to know how he felt. Because, as he had realized tonight in that one terrified scream, Sherlock cared about him just as much, even if he didn't realize it.

John slowly opened his eyes blinking against the lights and his pounding headache. He searched the room for the man he was sure would be there and he didn't have to look far. Sherlock sat next to his bed, his fingers on John's wrist and John smiled knowing that Sherlock was taking his pulse, assuring a heartbeat, monitors be damned.

"Sherlock—", his raspy voice said at the same time came Sherlock's relieved, "John—"

Their words fell over each other, each trying to tell the other what was on their minds.

"I'm sorry."

"No it was my fault!"

"Don't do that to me again."

"I'll try not to almost die."

"I was scared I'd lost you."

"I'm still here."

"Don't go anywhere, please."

The pleading in Sherlock's voice, shocked John into silence. "John, I need to tell you something. I don't do emotions or relationships. I'm not good at them. I never have been. But you, you're different. I once told you that you were a conductor of light, but you're so much more than just that. More than just someone who stimulates my thoughts. I have never felt more deeply for anyone than I do you. My world is better because of you, and I'm not sure if you feel the same, but I…I love you."

Not trusting his own voice, John answered wordlessly, raising Sherlock's fingers to his lips and kissed them.


End file.
